Paper Faces
by VexieChan
Summary: We saw how it all ended...lovers walking away hand-in-hand, phantoms disappering through secret doors and such. Now those involved with the Opera House Incident reflect upon it.


Paper Faces

The Esteemed Lady Quotes

Summary: We saw how it ended, lovers walking away hand in hand, phantoms escaping through hidden doors and such. But what were they thinking during that event? Here we find the reflections on past events by a few choice characters.

Disclaimer: I don't own it, just fell in love with it. sigh

Feedback: Reviews? Reviews for the poor?

AN: I read the book and loved it. Then I saw the movie, and I loved _that_ almost more than the book. I actually went to see it twice, once with my best friend and once with my boyfriend. One way or another, I am absolutely entranced by the Phantom Of The Opera. In both ways, really. I love the movie/book and I love Erik himself, because ah, what a character. Raoul is a whiny childish wuss with (as Some Guy and I have agreed) very bad hair.

The point of all this, of course, is to explain that this is a series of unrelated one-shots, in first person. It's sort of what everyone's thinking in the aftermath of the Phantom Incident. If all goes to plan, it shall go in this order: Raoul, Madame Giry, Christine, and finally, Erik. It goes in order from least to most fave characters. In my personal opinion.

This _is _movie-verse, by the way, though a tiny bit of Leroux seeps in, and an even tinier bit of Kay. Pairings go in the wonky triangle they're supposed to be in. Feedback incredibly welcome!

Part One: Raoul

I wonder, sometimes, how I ever managed to keep her. I'd loved her ever since I'd realized that girls were more than silly creatures in stupid dresses. I loved her more than anything else, or anyone, for that matter. But it was almost not enough.

I thought I'd never see her again, when she left. After M. Daaé passed away, she was hauled off to her new fate. I thought of her often after we parted ways. I wondered what had become of my Christine and where she was. Night after night in those first few weeks, I had lain awake worrying about her, hoping she was all right. After a while I began to imagine a new life for her.

I imagined she had gone to an orphanage, where she was treated kindly by the mistress, and had lots of fun with the other little girls, but she did not stay there long. She would have, of course, been chosen quickly by a loving, wealthy man and his kind, pretty lady, and they would give her lessons in song, and perhaps teach her the violin, like her father played. Imagine my surprise when I arrived at the opera of which I had become patron and saw her in the show. And in the lead, no less! I was so amazed, I even doubted it was she at first. The little girl I had once fallen in love with was all grown up.

She was beautiful. That was what I saw right away. She sparkled and shone, and it wasn't the makeup. I could see her putting her very heart and soul into that performance. Her eyes were cast above, into the heavens. I was entranced with her. I had remembered a little girl with wild curls and bright eyes, sparkling excitedly as we asked for stories from anyone who would tell them, and singing off-tune rhymes for fun. This beauty before me was composed and graceful and talented. But the eyes of the woman with the beautiful voice were filled with the same excited fun as the girl with the sweet yet off tune voice.

I knew right away I had to talk to her. It was all so good, her room was covered in flowers from her admirers. She remembered me, and we spoke of old times, old games. The Angel of Music. We laughed as I teased her, saying she surely was visited by the Angel of Music. She agreed enthusiastically, and I thought it was part of the game, part of our old game, played now in joy of our reunion. It never occurred to me that she actually _had _an Angel. An Angel of the Devil himself, perhaps, but an Angel all the same.

It was all fine, until _he_ came along. How I hated him! The Phantom was a menacing, debonaire, mysterious figure. The women spoke of him in hushed tones, delighted to be frightened by this classy spectre. "It's the Ghost!" Was a common cry amongst the chorus girls, particularly Meg Giry, who delighted in the tale most of all. As I walked backstage one day, near the end of that horrific event, I heard many of the girls talking about Christine and the Phantom, and how _lucky_ she was to get to see him. They knew it was the phantom. How could they not? Even so, it angered me. Lucky indeed! To be spirited away constantly to the monster's lair? I rarely hate people, but I have no hesitation in saying I hate the Phantom.

He was talented in many ways, I could easily admit to that. He had artistic talent, he had grace and swiftness, he was strong, and he was intelligent. He had extraordinary plans, and unhuman movements. And his opera. . . I looked it over with Andre and Firmin. It was ingenious, a beautiful work. I could admit that. Most of the great artists are completely mad at some point in their lives. It didn't bother me, though his random murders and pranks were less than comforting. But it was his obsession with Christine. . . _my_ Christine that really bothered me. He sent her gifts, flowers, his own blessing. He brought her with him down to his lair countless times, and I am quite sure he was never far behind her anywhere she went in the Opera House. When I saw the contents of his lair, the portraits he had drawn of her, the pieces he had written especially for her, not to mention the dress and the little wax figurines. . . my blood boiled.

I sound like such the jealous lover. And perhaps I am. Why shouldn't I be? That lunatic would have conquered countries if it would have made her happy. He gave her fame. I can give her fortune, and fame by association. I am, after all, the Vicomte De Chagny. She would have my estates by my side, produce my heirs, become hgh society by my side. But he taught her to be talented. He taught her to captivate crowds and become brilliant. I could never sing to her like he sang to her, when I heard him. I can sing, I can carry a tune enough to not embarrass myself. But I cannot bewitch her with my voice as that beast could. She fell in love with his fairytale. I suppose I should be grateful for that, for in the end, that was what made her choose me.

I give her reality. I give her comfort and light and warmth. I give her love. I do love her. More than anything. And I know she loves me. She loves_ both_ of us. No matter how much I hate to admit it. I will always have to share her spotlight with her Angel. With _Erik_.

Sometimes she will turn and look out the window, particularly when the night is dark and stormy and cold and sigh to herself: "Poor Erik..." She thinks I do not hear her. She is careful not to mention Erik at all when I am around. But I know when she's thinking of him. She looks so sad, so regretful. She'll rub a spot on her finger where a ring once sat... his ring. She does this when she thinks I'm otherwise occupied, when I'm not paying attention. But I see. And contrary to what she thinks, it makes me feel good to see it. It reminds me how close I was to losing her. And what she gave up for me.

I suppose I should be grateful to Erik for what he did to us. She would have followed him to the end until he saw me as a threat. She_ defended_ him so many times to me. She told me how terrible his life was, and how she wanted to help him. She told me not to hurt him, and even stopped me from killing him. At times it seemed she hated me for hating him. But in the end, it was me promising to release her, from showing no fear (though I was quite terrified) of taking on that tyrant that won her over. I won her heart by rescuing her from Erik. He showed her darkness, and I showed her light, and she chose light. And if the darkness hadn't been there, I often wonder if she would have even noticed the light.

I sometimes wonder if we both died that day, down in Erik's underground lair. Sometimes I look in the mirror at myself and my lady beside me, and I search hard for the boy and the girl who ran through the opera house not even a year ago, giggling as we played at being engaged and hid from La Carlotta so as not to have to listen to her nasal whining. They are no longer there. I do not see them. The boy is a man, and the girl, a woman.

My Little Lotte came back quieter, sadder, all grown up. She does not giggle at gentlemen chasing their hats in the wind. She does not scream for me to rescue her from little insects and rats. She's more mature than that now. I still call her Little Lotte, because I always have. But the name is not so fitting anymore. I myself have realized my own stupidity. The things that used to bother me have ceased to worry me. I no longer worry about styles and fashions. Appearance. . .it doesn't matter. If I had looked deeper, I would have been able to stop what happened to Christine, stopped _him_ from getting to her. I only saw that the Phantom was trying to get the woman I loved. I didn't see how sad she was, or how afraid.

The children we were are gone. We're not so carefree. We're not so innocent. But we're happy. Even when Christine is thinking of Erik, I know she's happier now. Before, I don't think we were ever truly happy, always reaching for fantasies. Looking for those stories we loved so much. But we didn't see what we had before us. We didn't see that life doesn't need magic to be wonderful. We have each other. Now we're happy. Funny how things turn out.

Christine is in our room now. Yesterday there was an advertisement in the paper. _Erik Is Dead._ She's heartbroken. Even I felt a twinge of guilt. But it's gone now. I do not believe Erik is truly dead. For last night I lay awake a long time, contemplating the events of ten months ago. It was well past midnight when I felt it. It was a familiar feeling, for I'd felt it every time I'd walked into the Opera Populaire. He was watching me. I did not sit up, but I opened my eyes a little to peer out the window over Christine's sleeping form. Nothing was there, nothing but shadows in the moonlight. But I knew. He was there. He _was_ the shadow. And then I heard it.

_Christine, Christine. . . _

My darling wife awoke, eyes wide, gasping for breath. She looked wildly at the window, then at me. I pretended to have been awoken by her nightmare and held her as she sobbed. She dreamed of Erik. I knew. I did not have to ask. And as I held her to my chest, stroking her dark locks, I continued looking out the window, but the shadows were now simply shadows, and I did not hear another whisper.

Erik is there. But it does not bother me anymore. Christine chose me. Christine loves me. And she did not see the shadows that night. To her, the Phantom is dead. To her, Erik is simply a whisper of the past.

Neither of us will forget. Erik was wrong in many things as he judged our thoughts. But he was not wrong in one thing. The Phantom Of The Opera is there, inside our minds. He always will be. Perhaps that is why he was content to claim his own death. To let everyone believe he was gone. Because he knows even if he is gone, we will always remember him. Christine will not see a rose or hear a certain tune without shivering. I will never look at the creeping shadows the same way. Neither of us will watch the falling snow without remembering. . .

The Phantom lives on forever.

Curse you, Erik.

End Part One

Okay, that's possibly the only chapter like that. His is more future-y than the rest. So far. I'll have M. Giry's up as soon as possible...my laptop and I don't get along when it comes to the internet. Heh. . .

Review and. . . and. . . I'll be very happy?

I remain your humble writer:

O.G.


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